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It was 3 a.m. and the sign read 38 miles to Medford. I thought I was home free.

Then it began to rain.

I had been driving since 9:30, when I left Portland expecting a short jaunt down to Ashland in my brand-new, shiny 1988 Ford Taurus, a gift from a generous friend who had traded up in the automotive world.

I had thought to myself, “Gee, what a fabulous opportunity to get to know my new car and its quirks while listening to some kick-ass mix tapes.”

Quirk number one: semi-functional windshield wipers.

I had already been informed of spiffy traits like brakes without that handy anti-lock feature, an overwhelming lack of airbags, and a tendency to overheat. Additionally, I was running on fumes myself, having a mere three hours of sleep under my belt from the night before, adding to a total of something like 12 hours for the whole week.

Four cups of coffee in the morning managed to fuel me until I arrived in Portland, where I promptly took a fitful two-hour nap. I stocked up on energy drinks and hit the road… only to pull over in Eugene, panic-stricken by the onset of rain with no way to wipe it off the windshield. Then a cop arrived and informed me of Quirk Number Two: no brake lights. Thankfully, he didn’t ticket me, or even ask for insurance information, which would’ve been very confusing to him I’m sure.

A few minutes and several more energy drinks later, I was back on the road, more freaked out than before. I made it to Cottage Grove, a town that consists of a railroad track and a market that says “open,” but isn’t. I checked to see if hazard lights were an option. I couldn’t find the button, so I called the previous owner, who was, as most people would be, almost asleep, and didn’t remember where they were. The handbook was no help, but my taillights weren’t out, so it was back on the road for me. At this point I abandoned all hope of making it home by dawn.

I made it to Roseburg by driving 40 mph and occassionally utilizing that handy shoulder-lane reserved for truckers and old ladies. I breezed through the well-lit and straight roads surrounding that metropolis at a solid 50 mph.

The glittering city of Medford was well within my sights when the rain began again. I slowed to a mere 35 mph during the series of S-curves that lie between Roseburg and Grants Pass.

I eventually made it to Ashland by using a carefully applied method of windshield-wiping madness followed by periods of low windshield-wiping activity.

I rolled into town shortly before dawn, a broken, frazzled, over-caffeinated shell of my former self.

Yesterday was Andrea’s 11th anniversary of coming out, and we decided to do a bit of drinking. I called up the roomies and informed ’em of the occasion, and when we got home from work we commenced with the booze consumption, busting out some leftover champagne from New Year’s. The night progressed, and we moved our debauchery down to the swanky Lumpy’s bar.

Later on, some guy wearing a cable knit sweater showed up at our table and just sort of started talking to everyone. Since he made indications of knowing my roomie, I figured I should be nice to him and introduce myself.

After our initial introduction, he began being really mean and rude to everyone. He kept telling my roommate’s girlfriend to shut up, and was being really rude to my other roommate’s best friend. Additionally, he was abusing the bartender, which is pretty much inexcusable at Lumpy’s.

During all this, I was getting more and more drunk, and then he started insulting my intelligence for no discernible (or good) reason.

I tried to use diplomacy on him, and asked him to go away. Unfortunately, diplomacy doesn’t work on assholes, so I tried to ignore him.

He persisted with the assholian behavior, despite my pleas to cease and desist, as well as threats to break his kneecaps, which I had no intention of following through on. Eventually, he got up to play pool, leaving his ever-so-fashionable sweater behind on his seat. I began complaining loudly to anyone who would listen about his less-than-fun behavior. At some point, someone probably got tired of hearing me rant, and suggested I pee on his sweater.

Me: “Wow, what a good idea.”

I grabbed my empty margarita glass and headed for the bathroom. Me and my pee in action!

So, as surreptitiously as possible in my drunken state, I poured my pee all over his sweater. Then, less surreptitiously, I dumped someone’s beer on it, too, before heading out the door.

My only regret is jacking some innocent’s drink, and not dumping it directly on him instead of his sweater.

Was I being mature? Absolutely not.

Were my actions incredibly satisfying? Hell yes.

Did I strike a blow for nice people everywhere? I like to think so.

You can just call me Sarah, dispenser of bodily fluid justice, defender of innocent beer-drinkers.

Although I doubt the boorish fellow learned his lesson, maybe he’ll think twice before he wantonly disregards the need to treat people with a modicum of respect.